Night Passage (A Jesse Stone Novel)

1
     
    At the end of the continent, near the foot of Wilshire Boulevard, Jesse Stone stood and leaned on the railing in the darkness above the Santa Monica beach and stared at nothing, while below him the black ocean rolled away toward Japan.
    There was no traffic on Ocean Avenue. There was the comfortless light of the streetlamps, but they were behind him. Before him was the uninterrupted darkness above the repetitive murmur of the disdainful sea.
    A black-and-white cruiser pulled up and parked behind his car at the curb. A spotlight shone on it and one of the cops from the cruiser got out and looked into it. Then the spotlight swept along the verge of the cliffs and touched Jesse and went past him and came back and held. The strapping young L.A. patrolman walked over to him, holding his flashlight near the bulb end, the barrel of it resting on his shoulder, so he could use it as a club if he needed to. The young cop asked Jesse if he was all right. Jesse said he was, and the young cop asked him why he was standing there at four in the morning. The cop looked about twenty-four. Jesse felt like he could be his father, though in fact he was maybe ten years older.
    “I’m a cop,” Jesse said.
    “Got a badge?”
    “Was a cop. I’m leaving town, just thought I’d stand here a while before I went.”
    “That your car?” he said.
    Jesse nodded.
    “What division you work out of?” the young cop said.
    “Downtown, Homicide.”
    “Who runs it?”
    “Captain Cronjager.”
    “I can smell booze on you,” the young cop said.
    “I’m waiting to sober up.”
    “I can drive you home in your car,” the young cop said. “My partner will follow in the black and white.”
    “I’ll stay here till I’m sober,” Jesse said.
    “Okay,” the young cop said and went back to the cruiser and the cruiser pulled away. No one else came by. There was no sound except the tireless movement of the thick black water. Behind him the streetlights became less stark, and he realized he could see the first hint of the pier to his left. He turned slowly and looked back at the city behind him and saw that it was almost dawn. The streetlights looked yellow now, and the sky to the east was white. He looked back at the ocean once, then walked to his car and got in and started up. He drove along Ocean Avenue to the Santa Monica Freeway and turned onto it and headed east. By the time he passed Boyle Heights the sun was up and shining into his eyes as he drove straight toward it. Say goodbye to Hollywood, say goodbye my baby.

2
     
    Tom Carson sat in the client chair across the desk from Hastings Hathaway in the president’s office of the Paradise Trust. He felt uneasy, as if he were in the principal’s office. He didn’t like the feeling. He was the chief of police, people were supposed to feel uneasy confronting him.
    “You can quietly resign, Tom,” Hathaway said, “and relocate, we’ll be happy to help you with that financially, or you can, ah, face the consequences.”
    “Consequences?” Carson tried to sound stern, but he could feel the bottom falling out of him.
    “For you, and if necessary, I suppose, for your wife and your children.”
    Carson cleared his throat, and felt ashamed that he’d had to.
    “Such as?” he said as strongly as he could, trying hard to keep his gaze steady on Hathaway.
    Why was Hathaway so scary? He was a geeky guy. In the eighth grade, before Hasty had gone away to school, Tom Carson had teased him. So had everyone else. Hathaway smiled. It was a thin geeky smile and it frightened Tom Carson further.
    “We have resources, Tom. We could turn the problem over to Jo Jo and his associates, or, depending upon circumstance, we could deal with it ourselves. I don’t want that to happen. I’m your friend, Tom. I have so far been able to control the, ah, firebrands, but you’ll have to trust me. You’ll have to do what I ask.”
    “Hasty,” Carson said. “I’m the chief of police, for crissake.”
    Hathaway shook his head.
    “You can’t just say I’m not,” Carson said.
    “You don’t make the rules in this town, Tom.”
    “And you do?” Carson said.
    His face felt stiff as he spoke and his arms and hands felt weak.
    “We do, Tom. Emphasis on the ‘We.’ ”
    Carson was silent, staring at Hathaway. The mention of Jo Jo had made him feel loose and fragmented inside. Hathaway took a thick stationery-sized manila envelope from his middle drawer.
    “You aren’t much of a policeman,